The sun had long since dipped below the skyline, leaving the house in a soft, amber gloom. Noel hadn't turned on any lights. She sat in the living room, wrapped in her blanket, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the empty space where her Jeep used to be. The silence was thick, almost suffocating. Even the pipes had gone quiet.
She hadn't eaten. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Hunger felt like background noise now—just another ache layered beneath the others.
She reached for her phone again. No new messages. No missed calls. No job alerts.
She opened her contacts. Five friends. She stared at their names—Jasmine, who had two kids and worked double shifts. Malik, who was couch-hopping after his own layoff. Tasha, who'd stopped replying after Noel asked for help last month. Devon, who meant well but always said, "Let me know if you need anything," and never followed up. And Bree, her closest friend, who had her own battles with depression and hadn't left her apartment in weeks.
Noel didn't text any of them.
She didn't want to be a burden.
She didn't want to hear "I wish I could help."
She didn't want to hear silence.
She wandered into her parents' old room, the blanket dragging behind her like a shadow. The mural in the hallway glowed faintly in the dark—vines, stars, the girl with grey eyes. Noel paused, touching the painted cheek.
"I don't feel like her," she whispered.
She stepped inside the room. The floor creaked beneath her. She sat on the edge of the stripped bed, staring at the velvet pouch she'd found earlier. It still lay unopened beside the metal box.
She picked it up, fingers trembling, and untied the string.
Inside was a gold chain with a small locket. She opened it.
A photo of her mother on one side. A photo of Noel as a baby on the other.
She pressed it to her chest, tears welling again.
"I miss you," she whispered. "I don't know what to do."
She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The fan spun slowly, casting shadows like clock hands. Her thoughts spiraled—memories of the factory, the sound of the machines, the smell of yeast and flour, the rhythm of routine. It had been hard work, but it was hers. It had given her purpose. Stability. A reason to wake up.
Now there was nothing.
No job. No car. No savings. Barely any help from family. Friends too stretched to reach out.
She felt like she was disappearing.
Noel didn't cry loudly. She didn't scream. She just lay there, tears slipping silently down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow. Her body felt heavy, like gravity had doubled. Her chest ached. Her limbs numb.
She thought about the bills. The car note. The groceries she couldn't buy. The job market that wanted degrees and ten years of experience for entry-level pay. She thought about the repo man's face—tired, detached. She thought about Marlene's sobs. About the man with five kids. About the woman with thirty-five years.
She thought about how the world kept moving, even when you couldn't.
She curled into herself, blanket pulled tight, the locket still pressed to her chest.
"I'm tired," she whispered. "I'm so tired."
The house didn't answer. It just held her in its quiet, like it had held her parents before her.
Outside, the city buzzed—cars, sirens, laughter, life.
Inside, Noel lay in the dark, wondering if anyone would notice if she disappeared.